


Delilah

by betp



Series: From Tumblr [10]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Drag, Established Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-25
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-04-28 03:21:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5075857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/betp/pseuds/betp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles had to dress in drag for a night for reasons. It has unexpected results. (Sex.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delilah

**Author's Note:**

> oh my god anon. I’m _pretty sure_ that’s not what I meant when I tagged it like that, but I can roll with this. _Let’s do it_

It would be _his idea_ , is the thing, and everyone would exchange uncomfortable glances and be like, “Th…at’s okay, Stiles. We can… we can figure something else out.” 

No. Stiles has made up his mind. He is going to _wear a dress_. He is going to get eyeshadow tips from Erica. He is going to _purchase cute shoes_. He is going to _smell like perfume._ It is going to be _great_. 

“You know, you _could_ just wear dresses for your own purposes,” someone assures him gently, “you don’t need to use this club situation as a crutch to–” but they are missing the point. The point is this is a _mission_. And Stiles is going to fucking _crush it_. 

So of course it’s a total disaster and Stiles is surly and soaking wet when he gets home; what makes it worse is he has to _knock_ , because he lost his keys. When Derek opens the door, he stares for a second, expressionless. Then he asks, “Can I help you, ma'am?”

“We gotta change the locks,” Stiles tells him, tripping over the doormat that says _Don’t Trod On Me_.

“Because I just let a strange woman into the apartment?”

Stiles ignores him, starts peeling his flats off. They’re too small, so it takes more effort than he’s ever paid attention to shoes. “Preferably within the next couple days. Are we out of—” He sighs. Pinches the bridge of his nose. “Are we out of bubble bath.” Derek’s lips twitch, and Stiles holds up his hands. “I’ve had a long freakin’ night, Derek. If the next words out of your mouth aren’t gonna be ‘yes’ or 'no,’ I would suggest you rethink your strategy.”

“I just bought some,” Derek tells him.

And Stiles squints, unsure whether Derek’s asking for it. “You remember those trick tests they give to middle schoolers,” he asks instead, “that are like, _Read all the directions before you begin. Write your name in the top left corner. Draw a snowman at the bottom of the page. Fold the page in half. Fill in all the O’s in your name. Don’t follow any of the previous directions_.”

Derek makes an impatient gesture.

“You must have failed those things every _goddamn_ time, I _swear_ to god. I specifically told you—”

“Wait, so does that _include_ the first direction? Is that why it’s a tri—?”

“Because you’re _really bad_ at following directions! _That’s_ the joke!”

Derek blinks at Stiles, a little doe-eyed. “I like your handbag,” he tells him. Stiles whings it at his face; unsurprisingly, he catches it with ease.

“I twisted the hell out of my ankle, so unless you’re gonna help me, go sit in a corner and _brood_.”

While Stiles stumbles down the hallway, wrestling with the fastenings on his dress, Derek strolls pointedly to the hooks by the door and hangs the purse there. Then he somehow meets him halfway down the hall, grabbing him from behind.

“ _Ho_ ly shit—”

“You said something about helping you,” Derek mutters, pressing against him.

“I was _mocking_ you. It wasn’t, that’s not what I—”

“You look…” Derek pauses to firmly feel Stiles’ ass through the dress. “…good. Like this.”

Stiles’ face goes hot. He lets Derek turn him around, back him ineptly down the hall, Derek following. “I’m,” he says awkwardly, “I’m pretty sure I look like a dude wearing a dress—”

“And it’s _hot_.”

Has Derek ever told Stiles he was hot? Has he ever described Stiles as attractive in any way? Has he ever used the word _hot_? Stiles has to blink hard a few times to return to reality. “Sorry,” he says, “I think I’ve gone delirious. What?”

Derek hums, low, gathering Stiles closer. This is weird. Stiles _knows_ it’s weird. So why does he feel like swooning and/or falling to his knees? This is strictly illogical. “Like, _okay_ ,” he says, getting his bearings, but he freezes when Derek reaches behind him and unzips the dress. “Hah… I mean, you could do that—” He gulps. “And I could pass out—”

“Don’t do _that_ ,” disagrees Derek. “I had plans.”

“You, um, plans?”

“I did. I just made them. Wanna know what I was gonna do first?”

“Go bowling?” Stiles guesses. “Do… laundry? Make—” He thumps backwards into the bathroom door frame, and Derek crowds close. “—make—ham, hamburger helper—”

“Bowling,” Derek says. “That was it. Thanks for reminding me.”

“You’re,” Stiles says. Derek’s smoldering; he’s hard against Stiles’ hip; he’s a guy with kinks that sort of miss the mark. “Um, welcome.” His stocking snags on the metal strip that separates the hallway carpet from the bathroom linoleum, and he tumbles sideways; Derek catches him. “To—wow, okay. To do sex to me. That's…”

“You have such a gift for expression,” Derek tells him, and hefts him up onto the counter by his thighs; Stiles feels like a receptionist in a porno. Then Derek pauses, looks at Stiles’ legs with curiosity.

“What?” Stiles is dizzy. “What? Wha’d I do?”

“You…” He pushes the skirt up one leg. “…wore garters?”

“None of the pantyhose things were long enough, okay?” Stiles snaps. “They said _tall_ but they weren’t! They were small! That’s the opposite, and I wasn’t gonna shave my legs for one, um… for one—ummm…” His mouth goes dry when he realizes Derek—wasn’t mocking him. “You, um. You like 'em.”

Derek pushes a thumb under the strap holding the stocking up. “Apparently,” he says. He seems surprised by this himself, like he’s never considered it before. That in itself is probably the most attractive thing he does: he never sees sex _coming_. If Stiles emailed him and asked him for a list of his kinks, he wouldn’t be able to comply. He’d come up emptyhanded, with nothing more than vague concepts and memories to share, and no words with which to share them. He’d probably send back an attached Word file with just “sex” on it.

“I, uh…” Stiles squirms, hoping to coax Derek’s hands further up the dress. “I had to w—Erica made me buy this, um, this thing that made me have, like—?” He gestures at his waist, which is a little more trim than usual. “Hips? A waist? Sort of? And, um, that’s what these are attached to—”

Derek tugs the dress off one shoulder to look at the thing. Stiles feels his cheeks burn red, shuts his eyes and holds his breath for two or three agonizing seconds, before Derek shakes his head. “I guess, hm,” he mumbles, hooking his fingers absently behind Stiles’ knees, “I guess you learn something new every day…”

Stiles nods. “Yeah. I learned that I have the expendable income to buy random corsets, and you learned…”

“That I…”

“Yeah. You—”

“Yeah.”

Stiles watches him take this in. He’s pretty confused, since he saw himself _before_ he got caught in some sprinklers and—well, all freshly dolled up and yet unmarred he was of the opinion he looked like a poky, drunken clown. Now he’s dripping and the hat is gone, but Derek’s dick seems to disagree with his assessment. There it is, voicing its dissent through Derek’s stupid slacks.

To return to the agenda, Stiles clears his throat. Breaks Derek out of his reverie. “If you _want_ ,” he says, “you could fuck me and call me Delilah.” He bats his eyes winningly; the lashes’re coated in mascara and it’s weird that he can see them.

Derek yanks him flush by his knees. “I’m _not_ calling you Delilah,” he says roughly, and it’s all Stiles can do not to come just from the sound of his voice.

“Ooh, Mister _Hale_ ,” he says, pretending to faint. “Give it to me _good_ —”

And Derek does. Everyone thinks Derek would hate Stiles wearing cologne or whatever, but the truth is it just enhances Stiles’ natural Stilesnicity. He smells like Stiles, if Stiles was wearing perfume and so horny he was writhing with it. And if it smells like a duck, quacks like a duck, clings to Derek’s biceps like a duck, then Derek feels like he can make an educated guess at its species. So he screws the hell out of Stiles and doesn’t call him Delilah and then they take a bath and soak in the bubbles and stare off into space, a little bit impressed with themselves and a little bit embarrassed. 

Then they look at each other. “Um, we could—” Stiles clears his throat. “Maybe, I mean not tonight, obviously, but—again, sometime, we could—” 

Derek just nods, staring at Stiles’ collarbone, where he’s peppered with bruises and stubborn glitter. 

Stiles had been intending to return every item in that getup, but the dress is soaked and it caught on Derek’s claws a couple times. And the thing, the stupid laceup thing—that’s proven a worthy investment. He’ll have to remember to send Erica a card. 

Stiles and Derek both find glitter on their bodies for weeks. 


End file.
